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Esme was used to a gaggle of children around. In a way, John's children made her transition to a wife in the city easier – the children felt like home. Their chaos was the familiar storm that eased her into a stagnant life. Being a wife in a stable home would have been maddening without chasing the children around. She could survive anything as long as a little chaos remained to keep her grounded.
John was a good husband; considerate and friendly, patient to learn about her and loving without being overbearing. Esme could see herself settling into this new life quite easily, if it hadn't been for the fact she had to fill a ghost's shoes in the eyes of the children.
Some of them took to her immediately, calling her 'mom' and clinging to her as if they'd been starving for motherly affection. It broke her heart.
The oldest, Katie, seemed resigned to her, not disapproval but not elation. They got along but were not particularly close yet. Esme had to work for her approval and she was ready to do so.
But little Edith, the one that had been a toddler when Martha passed, was not to be bribed or easily won over. Edith had been a mama's girl and clung to her prized porcelain doll, calling it mama, and glared at Esme's attempts at friendship.
"Give her time," John said, his hand on her shoulder. "She'll get there."
Esme found the doll unsettling. She had never seen a porcelain doll other than passing toy store windows; porcelain was too fragile for the traveling. Instead, she was raised with fabric dolls that were easily washed or restuffed. Porcelain was a semblance of lifelike that made her uneasy.
"When Edith was inconsolable after her mum's passing, I spent my last pound buying her that doll," John explained one day after Esme voiced her unease. "It's dressed in fabric from her mother's favorite dress, that's why she clings so tightly. It's her last memory of Martha."
Esme tried to stomp down her feelings and push through the growing contempt she had for the doll. Edith was just a small child that missed her mom; she needed love and nurturing. So she gave her grace.
Edith carried Mama everywhere, whispering into her ear and clinging desperately to her dress. Where Edith went, so did Mama. Except at night.
Esme would find Mama all over the house after Edith went to bed. She refused to touch the doll, but it always moved. It seemed no matter that it was in Edith's arms when she was tucked in, the doll would be sitting in a chair or beside the fireplace when Esme got up for water. When Esme brought it up, John would shrug and brush it off.
"She knows you hate the doll, love," he said. "She probably sets it somewhere to scare you on purpose."
On a particularly chaotic morning, Esme made breakfast for the entire family. In between the fighting and the yelling, she noticed Edith was quiet. She would whisper to her doll but did not partake in the games or chatter like her siblings. Occasionally she would frown and look at Esme, but quickly look away when they met eyes.
"Edith," Esme asked as she cleared plates from the table as everyone ran off for the day. "What's wrong, sweetie? You've barely eaten."
"Mama says you hate me and want to poison me," Edith said matter-of-factly, squeezing her doll tight.
"I could never hate you," Esme said as she sat in the empty seat next to the girl. "I love you. I want to be friends."
The girl frowned and leaned her head against her doll. The hair on the back of Esme's neck stood up.
"Mama says you lie and you want to replace mom."
"I could never replace your mother, dear," she said as she tried to meet the girl's eyes. "I don't want to. She was a very special woman whom your father loved very much. I just want to love you and your siblings and help your father raise you as best we can. You don't have to think of me as a mom."
Edith's brow scrunched together but her grip on the doll loosened.
"Does your mom talk to you through the doll?" Esme asked, eyeing the porcelain figure. "Do you hear her voice in your head when you talk to Mama?"
Edith nodded with a smile.
"Yes, Mama promised never to leave as long as I kept speaking to her," she chattered excitedly before her mouth formed an O. "But… it's a secret. I wasn't supposed to tell anyone."
"I won't tell a soul," Esme said as she raised her hand. "On my honor."
Edith smiled back.
"I do have to ask," Esme said. "Do you put Mama around the house at night to scare me?"
Edith frowned.
"What do you mean?" She asked, confused. "She sleeps with me at night."
–
Edith slowly warmed up to Esme after that, but it only brought more occurrences around the house. Things would break with no one in the room. You could hear voices in the night, but when you went to the room they were in it was quiet. Esme's things would constantly go missing. Every good day between them would cause another night of unrest.
One morning, Edith came to the kitchen with dark circles around her eyes, her little face pale and haunted. The doll was nowhere in sight.
"Where's Mama?" Esme asked, sitting a plate in front of the girl. "Did she need to sleep in?"
"I can't find her," she said, looking up at Esme. "She told me you were bad, and when I told her that you were good and loved us, she screamed and screamed inside my head and when I woke up this morning she wasn't in my room."
Esme grew cold all over her body as she went very still.
"Love," Esme said slowly as she licked her lips. "Has Mama ever asked you something weird? Like to do something but you couldn't understand why?"
"Yes."
"What has she asked you?"
"She asked me if she could go into the doll to be with me always," Edith said, bouncing with excitement. "I was so excited the night she came."
Her smile fell as she grew hesitant.
"The other night she asked if she could go inside something else," she said slowly as he eyes drifted across the table. "But that I might not be able to let her."
"Did she ask to go inside you, honey?" Esme said as she reached for her arm.
"No," Edith looked up to meet Esme's eyes. "She asked to go inside you."